


as sure as the sun

by mostly_empty_space



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Second Person, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 23:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6630628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostly_empty_space/pseuds/mostly_empty_space
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She told you not to pull on that thread.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Because you will find him. Piece by piece. Forsaken labs and encrypted files. Cryo tanks and mission protocols. And blood, always more blood, on your hands, and blood on his. Because day after day you will discover this new person wearing the face of the man who meant everything to you, and night after night you will mourn all over again for the man who died in winter, somewhere between the Alps and the diligence of the Red Room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as sure as the sun

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dirtyprettythings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtyprettythings/gifts).



 

 

You remember a story about a thread, a labyrinth and a monster.

 

You remember a story about a hero following a thin golden thread, a way forward and a way out. The thread was meant not to get lost, but there are no retreats in labyrinths, no coming back the way you came. The point is to get lost. All the thread did was guide him deeper into the maze, because that’s where he needed to go, that’s where he would find the beast. He had to get lost to find it, he had to get lost before he could face it.

 

You remember a woman with red hair and red smiles giving you a file.

 

She told you not to pull on that thread.

 

The file won’t help you find your way back; it is your way _in_. She doesn’t like handing it over to you, knowing the damages it will cause, but since there is no stopping you, no going back, it is best you get it from her. The intel is as good as it gets, spare and full of holes. She won’t come along this time; she has her own path, her own demons to find. But she’ll be there if you need her. When you come out on the other side. She knows the place. Been there, done that.

 

She told you not to pull on that thread. To quit while you’re ahead, before the whole thing came unravelled, the whole nasty web of lies and all its ugly, unforgiving truths.

 

She told you not to pull on that thread because it would lead you into the dark, it would drag you into the mud, blood and guilt. It would drag you through seventy years of snow. Because it would tear out of your mouth all the things you’ve tried desperately to swallow over a century, anger and screams and confessions, of unlived years and songs long gone. Heavy, _heavy_ on your heart, sharp and devastating on your tongue like truth too often is. She told you not to, because it would hurt, it would hurt you more than you can imagine, but not more than you can bear. Because it is _him_.

 

Because you will find him. Piece by piece. Forsaken labs and encrypted files. Cryo tanks and mission protocols. And blood, always more blood, on your hands, and blood on his. Because day after day you will discover this new person wearing the face of the man who meant everything to you, and night after night you will mourn all over again for the man who died in winter, somewhere between the Alps and the diligence of the Red Room.

 

And how do you do that: fight for man who doesn’t remember being one, chase after him inside a horror story, when the ghost is real and deadly and _yours_? How do you find someone who doesn’t exist, how do you keep fighting for the one that lives when you are still grieving the one that lies under the ice?

 

The boys from Brooklyn died in the war. They both died that winter.

 

You remember a story about a monster, half human, half beast, so ugly and dangerous that it had to be locked away, in an inescapable place, designed solely for it. A palace of dark red and dull grey, phantoms of dead fire and stale air, nothing of the blue sky or the burning cerulean of the sea.

 

You remember that there was a trick to the story, because, why would they not simply kill the beast in the first place? Why build it a palace and keep it hidden and hungry, everlasting?

 

You remember that the creature was of royal blood, born of a queen and a bull, fruit of an unnatural union between woman and beast. The monster could not be killed. It would be as much a sacrilege to the gods as it was retribution for defying them. The beast was an abomination but it was sacred, too terrible and magnificent to be killed.

 

You remember that sacrifices were made every nine years. Seven maidens and seven young men would be selected. Those innocents would be offered to the labyrinth, sealed inside, left to its cruelty and its occupant.

 

No one said what became of them, or what was their true purpose: to feed the beast or the empty belly of its prison?

 

No one said what became of the beast in its glorified tomb or how it lived, all those years. Did it feed on human flesh? Did it enjoy hunting healthy preys? Or did it long for the sun and the wind on its face like any living creature would?

 

You remember a story about a place, a palace without doors or windows, a place without time or light, where ignored and forgotten by the living resided something raw and starving, something with too much teeth and rage, something with no words or name, something that shouldn’t exist but did.

 

A long time ago there lived an impossible creature, locked in a terrible place, trapped a web of shadows and deceits.

 

Now lives someone who is not the man you loved -but who isn’t what they made out of ashen bones and metal either.

 

Somewhere, a Minotaur is roaming a labyrinth without walls or doors, wandering into a world he has never seen before. The sky and the sea fill his lungs. The sun sinks into his forgotten eyes and sets everything on fire. A lot of things hurt but he won’t give them back. He won’t go back to the dark.

 

Somewhere, a Minotaur is looking for clues, for a thread of his own to follow. He needs to make sure that the cage is truly broken, that the labyrinth will keep unravelling, that the whole design will be unmade, unfolded, torn apart and hollowed out, like the person he once was, the one that was taken from him.

 

Now there is you, holding on that thread as tight as you can, because this is the only thing you can do. You will crawl your way back to the surface, you will get blood on your hands and winter in your bones and it won’t matter –after all you never left the war and the war never left you: cold, wet boots, mud under your clothes, splatters of blood that you never manage to wash out. The battlefield follows you into your bed. It follows you deep into the night, and deeper into the day.

 

Now there is you, hanging on that thread like a life-line because that’s what it is. Your friends think you’re running after him because you want to save him. They have it all wrong. You’re running after him because you have no choice. You’ll drown if you don’t. You would have drowned again, without him. You always drown without him. You’ve entered a labyrinth of your own. This one isn’t made of metal and lightning through the brain. The walls of your prison are plastered with yellowed memories and lost friends, an entire world swallowed by the crashing of a plane into a motionless sea.

 

If Death doesn’t want either of you, then so be it. You take the curse for what it is: a bloody _miracle_. So you keep running. And you keep fighting. This time, he runs and you'll follow. You’ll jump, you’ll fall, you’ll crash another plane, you’ll climb into a black hole, you’ll follow him anywhere.

 

The thread is taut, vibrating some days, looser on others, but it’s still there. He is alive, somewhere, and he’ll get you through this maze of yours.

 

The thread is wrapped around your knuckles. You kiss it goodnight before you go to sleep. Hope is a delirious thing.

 

Tomorrow, you will pull on that thread and follow it towards the man who you have yet to meet. Tomorrow you will follow and find your way out of the past, a way to leave it behind.

 

The day after, you will run and run and run until your lungs spit fire and digest acid, until your legs burn and beg ‘no more’, and then you will run some more, because you have a long way to go, a long way before you catch up with him, because at the end of that thread, there is a man who, like you, is the result of the impossible, and he runs as fast as you do. He is the only one who can make you run like that. The only one who can make it a challenge. You run after and he runs ahead, but one day, he will slow down and one day, maybe, he will wait. For you, for _his_ ghost, to catch up with him.

 

You have nothing to lose anymore. You’ve lost the one you loved. You’ve prayed and wept and mourned for him in two different centuries. You have nothing left to lose but that single, steadfast, stubborn resolution that you have to go on. To find him. To find your way. But it is not in vain. The thread is palpable, in your hands, and he is alive. _He is alive_.

 

You have everything to lose. Hope is a terrible thing. You speak to him in your head, tell him stories, ask him questions, learn about him even though you fear his answers.

 

It doesn’t matter because it will always be more, it will always be better than any room empty of him, better than any city without him to fill the shadows, better than any world without him breathing in it.

 

Not today, not tomorrow, later, you will finally get out of the maze and he won’t be running anymore. Neither will you.

 

The thread is loose, pooling on the floor between the two of you. It’s still here, even after you’ve both found a way out, a way home.

 

Whatever happens, it will be there, for you to find him, for him to find you.

 

You were warned about threads and following dead men beyond the grave. You were warned about seeking the truth and having hope. You were warned about holding on too tight. Maybe you should have let it go. Maybe it was the sane thing to do. But it never was an option. You did the only thing you could live with.

 

Getting lost and getting found is worth it. Everything will be worth it. Because it is him, and because it is you.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This happened because I couldn't resist exploring that line from Natasha, and I love the Minotaur a *little* too much.


End file.
